


Food Omens

by KiwiBerry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Typical Absurdity, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Temporary Amnesia, cooking show au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiwiBerry/pseuds/KiwiBerry
Summary: Aziraphale disappears, and Crowley joins a cooking show to get him back. Everything goes exactly as planned. For the most part.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Food Omens

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This piece was for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019. I had a blast writing this piece, and have to give a shout out to my gorgeous artist ludo for creating such a stunning piece and going along with my insanity. Go check them out at lludoart on tumblr! Another shout out to my awesome beta, happywhorecruxhunting, fo inspiring me with absurd late night conversations. I don't know how I would have been able to do this without either of them!! <3

The camera was a bit off centered, and Crowley pointed a finger to right it. Three older humans were gathered around him, all greying and with wrinkles around their eyes. Crowley easily shifted the frying pan he was holding, flipping some vegetables in the process. 

“Now, Crowley, could you please tell us what you’ll be cooking for us today?” The one human asked. He had steely blue eyes, a distinctly American accent, and refused to smile. Crowley had taken a like to him immediately. 

“Now where ‘s the fun in that?" he teased, continuing to cook as if there weren't multiple cameras on him, eyes drawn to the way he moved like water over his designated station. "I always say a little secrecy adds just the right spice to any dish.” He winked at the closest camera, throwing something in the pan that created a small burst of flames. The judges clapped in unison, impressed. 

“That it does,” another judge said, smiling at Crowley. She was younger, with bright green eyes and a freckled face, and looked at her fellow judges, before turning to the camera. “Seems it is just another day here on Heaven's Kitchen, where the competition is practically divine!” 

The small audience behind the cameras laughed, hollow and fake, and a final lingering shot of Crowley filled every TV in London before switching to a commercial for flame resistant aprons.

“Get him in here,” Gabriel motioned at a nearby angel who seemed confused. “Oh, you know. The soft one. With the hair.” He mimed his hair sticking out in various directions which caused the angel to only keep staring. “Aziraphale. For God’s sake, get me Aziraphale.” 

The angel nodded, bumbling a bit in the process, before striding out of the room. Silence lingered within the white walls, and Gabriel looked at the empty papers on his desk. A flick of the wrist filled them out neatly, and he made an impressed noise at his own ingenuity. 

A moment later, the angel returned with Aziraphale in tow. He shuffled along rather shyly, lingering just behind the other angel’s shoulder. When that angel vanished, Aziraphale stuttered in his steps, smoothing down his own shirt nervously. 

“Oh, um, hello there, Gabriel. How are we doing today?” he asked, smiling. Gabriel frowned in return. “Right then. Well, um, was there something you needed me for or--?” 

“Earth,” Gabriel said flatly, flipping through the stack of now filled out paperwork. “Nothing too hard. Just a case of a demon making a tiny bit too noise. I wouldn’t normally call on you for this, but most of our other angels are busy so--” 

“Oh, it’s no bother!” Aziraphale assured, and Gabriel made a face like that was the last thing he was concerned about. “I’m, uh, happy to help.” Aziraphale stood himself a little straighter, chin raised. He hadn’t been out in the field for quite some time. 

Gabriel raised a brow, unimpressed. “Uh, yeah. Okay. Whatever. Just make sure no one’s tipping the scales too far in either favor, yeah?” He waved a hand dismissively, and Aziraphale only nodded before turning for the exit. “Someone will get you the details on your way out.” 

“I won’t let you down,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder, unable to hide his excitement. 

Gabriel only put a hand over his face, and sighed. 

Crowley threw his jacket on the floor of his apartment, unbothered. He stomped through the place, ignoring the quivering plants that seemed to track his movements. He'd have to water them soon, but thought another day might toughen them up. Keep them in their place. 

Throwing himself on the edge of his desk, gaze drawn to the gray buildings outside his window, he snapped his fingers. “Call Angel.” 

Crowley’s phone machine began ringing, an annoying, trilling sound, before beeping out a dial tone. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. If you believe you have received this message in error, please press--” 

Crowley picked up the phone only to slam it back down, violently. “Dammit all.” He took off his glasses, rubbing aggressively at his eyes. “Bugger everything!” He flopped back onto his desk and draped over it dramatically, before letting out a sigh. “Where are you?” he asked aloud, but soft enough to not make a dent in the overwhelming silence of his own apartment. Minus the plants of course. 

Aziraphale was missing. Well, not entirely. Sure, he might not know where the angel was, but he did know where he wasn’t. And that was Earth. No matter how far Crowley stretched himself, he could find no trace of the angel he knew. Hell, even the bookshop was gone. That had really thrown him at the time, having pulled up outside the normal, boring building only to realize it was empty and boarded up, vacant. When he'd asked around, it seemed as if no one remembered the place existing. Ever. 

The whole thing stunk of heavenly intervention, and Crowley would be saved if he wasn't going to give them what they gave right back. Hence his newfound cooking career. It wasn’t much, just enough to stir a bit of trouble. Get some notice on the important radars. Hell, he hoped they didn’t know what he was doing entirely. It was only fair since he had no idea what Heaven was playing at. It wasn’t like he and Aziraphale had done anything blatantly good or bad lately, right? 

Crowley sat up to stare out the window behind his desk. London had never looked so dreary, and that was saying something. 

Aziraphale looked around his new flat. Not too shabby, by Heaven’s standards. It was quaint, really. A bit small, but he’d make due. The owner seemed quite friendly, and, well, he wouldn’t be here forever. Just a quick pop in and out, he’d been told. The instructions had been rather sparse, but from what he understood there was a contestant on a well-known show called Heaven's Kitchen who seemed to be pulling some devilish strings. The man had even become renowned enough to be offered a line of frozen meals, which struck Aziraphale odd and definitely reeked of Hell. Who ever heard of a cooking show contestant getting their own line of frozen foods? It was absurd, even by Heaven’s standards. 

Not that Azirapahale knew much about cooking shows. Oh no, it wasn’t like he spent his moments alone tuning in to Earth television. Preposterous. He would never, of course. 

Aziraphale took note then of the small television atop a chest of drawers. Well, no one would blame him for taking advantage of his time on Earth and perhaps getting accustomed to the culture. If he remembered correctly, it had been an unfortunately long time since he’d been on Earth. Perhaps he could shake out some of the dust in his wings. Now wouldn’t that be a treat? 

Crowley absolutely hated cooking. If anyone asked, he would be more than happy to exaggerate the point. Eating was such a disgustingly human thing to do, and the thought turned him off more than anything else. The only good thing to come out of the need for physical sustenance was the creation of alcohol, which Crowley could not fault humans for. He wouldn’t say it was good or bad by any means, but it did allow moments of silence in his mind that would last as long as he would let them. Aziraphale always did seem to have more of taste for it than him, anyway. Hell, how many meals had he accompanied the angel on just to watch the other shove tasteless objects into his mouth with commentary? Too many, that was for sure. 

Cooking had always been Aziraphale’s thing. His passion, or something along those lines. Crowley wasn’t the best at listening when the angel went on one of his rants, but he knew if there was anything Aziraphale was likely to be drawn to, it was something food related. Hopefully, Heaven had gotten his message and the angel would appear any day now. 

Crowley hadn’t expected that day to come quite so soon. 

He’d been a bit speechless when he’d caught sight of the angel across the show set. He’d been caught up in eyeing the competition, not that there was any worry (thank you, demonic aptitude), when he heard that light, feather-like laugh that still softened him to his core. Turning around, Aziraphale was talking with one of the producers, chatty as usual. Crowley didn’t bother to make an excuse for interrupting, and simply strolled over to insert himself in between the two. 

“Well, hello,” he said, looking pointedly at Aziraphale. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Name’s Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley.” 

Aziraphale had the audacity to look sheepish at the introduction, like the two hadn’t known each other for eons. “Ah, Aziraphale. Just Aziraphale, I’m afraid. I was just speaking with Mr. Whitmire about today’s shooting. It is all rather exciting, isn’t it?” 

Crowley gave him an unimpressed once over before nodding. “Yes, I believe it is. Have you seen the equipment? Very state of the art. Here, why don’t I show you around.” 

With only a meek nod from Aziraphale, Crowley grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him over to his own station. It was nothing that impressive: a simple counter with stove top and oven, drawers, and cabinets of utensils. The usual for when one needed to cook. As for ingredients, those usually resided behind a wall that would be conveniently pulled back for a dramatic reveal while filming. Same with any other appliances needed, like a refrigerator or what have you. Crowley never paid much attention, seeing as he could just wave a hand if he’d forgotten something. It really was almost too easy sometimes. 

Aziraphale easily became lost within the show of it all, marveling at everything he came across, like he hadn’t had his own kitchen for centuries. Crowley helped him pick out the damn hand towels, for Hell’s sake. “Well, I must say, this is all mighty impressive. Although, I'm afraid I am tad bit rusty to be among such great cooks like yourself.” 

Crowley made a noise that meant he could really care less. When no one else was in earshot, he leaned into Aziraphale, voice low and forward. “Listen, Angel, you don’t need to pretend around me. I get something’s going on with Heaven and you probably can’t tell me, but..." 

Before he could go on, Aziraphale had gone stiff and quickly stepped away from Crowley. His eyes were wide, and there was something akin to fear on his face. That was new. “Um, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He dropped the utensil he’d been holding onto the counter with a quick apology before walking away. 

“Angel, wait,” Crowley said, a bit louder than he’d meant to, and Aziraphale turned sharply, a serious look in his eyes. 

“I’m not quite sure what you’re playing at, but I would appreciate it if you ceased this nonsense concerning angels.” When Crowley just stared at him, a bit shocked, Aziraphale seemed content. “Right then. Well, good luck.” 

With that, Aziraphale disappeared and Crowley leaned against the counter feeling suddenly like the burnt remains of his latest dish. Aziraphale didn’t recognize him. Didn’t know him. Oh, he knew Heaven was full of goody-two shoe scumbags, but to make his Angel forget about him? That was low. That was beyond low. 

That was war. 

Aziraphale wiped his hands on his tea towel, ignoring the stains it made. If he was anywhere else, he would have considered miracle-ing the spots away. But he was on a public set, with witnesses, and he knew it wasn’t worth the trouble. Besides, he should be congratulating himself. He’d made it through the current round of whatever it was the show had explained to him. It sounded like a game of knock out in marbles or something humanly similar. Heaven had made sure to get him a decent spot in the competition, even with his late entry. He didn’t concern himself too much with the details, however, considering his goal wasn’t to win the darn thing. He just needed to make sure a demon didn’t, that’s all. 

When he’d arrived, he hadn’t been sure who exactly the demon cooking up malicious meals was, but now he was rather certain. That Crowley fellow had stuck out the moment he'd stepped foot on set, dressed smartly in all black and with those obnoxious glasses on. Really, how could one see inside with those things on? 

Angel, he had called him, and Heaven’s if that hadn’t shook him to his core. He’d almost blown his cover right then and there. But Crowley seemed to have backed off for the moment, so Aziraphale was able to breathe easier for the time being. Best to keep his distance, then. Who knew what a weasley fellow like him could get up to? 

Leaving the studio had been a rather unremarkable event, yet Aziraphale was on guard as ever. Better not to run in to you-know-who. 

“Aziraphale.” 

Speak of the demon. 

“Crowley. Hello. You were quite wonderful today. How do you get your crusts cooked just so?” Aziraphale tried his best to push them toward cheery small-talk, hoping to keep their interaction short, but Crowley seemed unwilling to oblige. 

“Call it a magic touch,” Crowley huffed, hands shoved in his pockets. He looked a bit ragged all things considered. Perhaps their competition that day had worn him out. The woman had made a rather delicious looking meat pie. “Listen, I wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't mean to scare you or anything, I just wanted to, well, you know, yeah?” 

Aziraphale let a small, nervous laughter past his lips. the lack of clarity in the other's words had thrown him a bit off guard, especially given their previous interaction. “Oh, no, that’s quite alright. I’m not really one for he spirit of competition, but I can understand the desire to, uh, rough up a fellow competitor, yes?” 

Crowley smiled a bit at that, seeming grateful, and Aziraphale thought the expression rather became him. Made him look a bit softer around the edges. “Yeah, well, it’s a bit of a habit.” He shook his head, expression suddenly falling as he crowded Aziraphale back against his car. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for not realizing earlier. And to let you know that I will fix this. Just you wait.” 

Aziraphale dropped his gaze, unsure as to why he was so suddenly feeling so nervous. Perhaps it was a side effect of demons he’d forgotten during his absence from Earth? “Right. Well, that’s very good of you. To apologize, I mean. And there’s nothing to fix my, dear lad. Perhaps we’ve just gotten off on the wrong foot.” He reached a hand forward, smile on his face. “Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Aziraphale, and it is a pleasure to meet you.” 

Crowley seemed to stare at him for long moments, before taking his hand. His skin was warm to the touch. “Anthony J Crowley. The pleasure is all mine, believe me.” And there was that smile again, and Aziraphale found himself fond of it already. 

“Crowley, then,” Aziraphale repeated, testing the name on his tongue. He quite liked it. 

Crowley wanted to tear his hair out. He tore his glasses from his face, leaning back into the seat of his Bentley. He pounded the steering wheel before letting out a frustrated yell. Damn Heaven, and damn Aziraphale for being so obtuse. It was like they’d wiped the angel clean. No matter how much he poked and prodded, Aziraphale was as dense as always. It was honestly driving him a bit bonkers. 

Sure, the two of them had been sliding through the competition easy, every week playing the same role of aspiring cook only to come out on top again and again. Of course they made mistakes. They had to, to play the part. But it always kept them in the running, made them a household favorite. According to everyone he ran into, the show was a smashing success. 

Yet Crowley felt like anything but. He sat upright, drawing in a deep breath before letting it out. He picked up his glasses from the passenger seat, righting them on his face. He needed to focus. Continue with the plan. It had worked well enough so far. But the next bit was tricky, and he had to time it just right. 

“Breathe, Crowley. It’s just dinner. Nothing you haven’t done millions of times before. Nothing to it.” 

He turned on the radio, some pop beat quickly turning into Queen. 

“Typical,” he sighed, before pulling onto the road as recklessly as he could. 

Aziraphale was a bit nervous. 

He told himself there was no need, seeing as how everything had been going smoothly and Heaven had seemed pleased with his progress so far. He’d located the threat, was appeasing the situation, and kept detailed notes on every encounter for Gabriel to go over. 

He hadn’t been expecting Crowley to ask him out to dinner, however. 

He wasn’t one to refuse such a genuine gesture, especially given his inability to discern any real ill intent behind the offer. Yet the thought of fraternizing with a demon of all things outside of working hours felt a bit, well, odd to be honest. Perplexing. Exhilarating? No, Aziraphale shook his head at that one. There was nothing exciting about getting dinner with a demon. No, sir. If anything it should be terrifying, unnerving. 

Yet, why did he feel anything but? Aziraphale had slowly gotten comfortable around Crowley, the more they ran into one another, and he seemed to give off a very different aura than any other demons he’d come across before. It was as if a part of the demon still radiated some element of humanity, which should be unheard of given Hell’s dislike for all things earthly. Yet, Crowley seemed to embrace it all, almost at home amongst the humans. 

Aziraphale wondered sometimes how long he’d been on Earth. What it had been like. Oh, he’d been teeming with questions, but he hadn’t dared ask. Perhaps tonight he could? Now, he couldn’t ask outright, but what was one or two subtle questions involving humankind history between co-competitors, hm? Yes, that should be quite alright. 

The clock in his flat chimed he hour, and Aziraphale realized he was running a bit late. Best not to keep a demon waiting. With a last check in the mirror, hands smoothing over his vest, and a snap of the fingers, he arrived in front of a restaurant know as The Ritz.

It was a lovely place, even from the outside, and Aziraphale only had to glance a moment around before spotting the familiar Bentley pulling up to the curb. Crowley stepped out, dressed just as sharply and darkly as always. 

“You walked?” he asked, seeming perplexed by the idea, and Aziraphale laughed. 

“Oh, no, of course not.” He motioned to the street before them, busy with cars. “I got a ride. Who says you can’t rely on good public transportation nowadays?" 

“Right,” Crowley said, partly mumbled, before turning Aziraphale towards the entrance. “Well, it will do us no good standing out here. We have reservations, after all. After you.” 

Aziraphale felt himself jump at the touch, Crowley’s hand just as warm as he remembered, even through his suit. “Oh, yes. Thank you. “ 

Inside, Aziraphale felt like some part of him had come home. He couldn’t explain it, not in words, but there was this familiarity within the place. A feeling he'd equate to someone coming home after a particularly long holiday. Not that he’d ever taken a holiday, but he'd watched one too many human shows to not be able to imagine. 

“So, what do you think?” 

Aziraphale looked up from his glass, having been a bit lost in thought. They were about halfway through the main course, and the two of them hadn’t spoken much beyond expected small talk. “Pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.” 

Crowley raised a brow, leaning forward on his elbow. His other hand traced the rim of his own glass lazily. “Be honest. You hate it.” 

That earned a laugh from Aziraphale. “Are you absurd? Of course not. The place is lovely. More than lovely, actually. It just seems, well...” He wasn’t quite sure how much he could say without raising any suspicion. He blamed the alcohol for his lapse in judgement. “Well, it all feels a bit familiar, doesn't it? As if I’ve been here before. Which is quite absurd, seeing as how I’ve never--” 

Crowley was sitting up in his seat, arm now outstretched across the table as if reaching for Aziraphale. When Aziraphale noticed, he went silent, and Crowley seemed to realize what he’d done. 

“Gah, sorry. Sorry. Didn’t mean to--” He waved a hand, as if the rest of the words didn’t matter. “Anyway, what was that you were saying about being familiar?” 

Even with the glasses, Aziraphale could feel the others gaze on him. “Oh, well, um, it wasn’t anything important. No matter really. My, this wine is rather lovely. Perhaps another glass.” He raised his own, sipping the remaining drops before placing it gingerly to the side. 

Crowley was silent for a long while, expression unreadable, before he raised his own glass, downing it in one go. “Divine,” he replied, an edge to his voice that sounded like he meant anything but. 

Aziraphale wondered suddenly if this had all been a very bad idea. 

Aziraphale couldn’t get drunk. It was physically Impossible for him to do so. Yet here we was, allowing himself to feel the effects of inebriation as Crowley led him into his apartment. He blamed the fact that he was undercover, and Crowley wasn’t supposed to know he was an angel. And there was no way someone could drink as many glasses of wine as Aziraphale had at dinner and not been even just a little off balance. It was for the good of the mission. That was all. 

“Couch is in there,” Crowley slurred, and Aziraphale remembered that the demon had had quite a few glasses as well. Perhaps they had both cornered themselves into a bit of a predicament here. 

“As a matter of fact, why I am here?” Aziraphale pondered aloud, looking around the room. It was all cold grays and harsh surfaces, sparsely furnished. So very different than his own apartment, yet not unwelcoming. Another odd sense of familiarity washed over him, but he shooed it away while miracle-ing away just a smidge of the alcohol in his system. It would be rather poor manners to get sick all over Crowley’s floor. 

As he sat, he could hear loud banging noises and curses coming from the other room. Curious, and feeling a bit adventurous, Aziraphale followed. He ended up walking into a kitchen which was just as gray and sparse as the rest of the apartment, except Crowley was standing in the middle of it, one hand waving around a frying pan while slamming cabinet doors. 

“Crowley, dear, is everything alright?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask, even though he knew for a fact that everything was not alright in the least if Crowley’s body language was anything to go by. 

Crowley slammed another cabinet, frying pan waving dangerously. “Did you know there’s not a single bloody pear in this kitchen? I go out of my way to buy bloody groceries in the hopes of impressing you with my cooking, but I couldn’t even be blasted enough to grab a single bloody pear.” He said the last word with such vehemence, Aziraphale almost laughed at the absurdity. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said eventually, snuffing his laughter before getting rid of just another smidge alcohol. “Whatever made you think you needed to impress me? And with a pear of all things?” He knew he was missing something here, but the illogicality of the situation wasn’t working very well with his inebriation. It must have been at least a whole millennia since he’d last been on Earth long enough to get drunk. 

Crowley’s face was rather unreadable behind his dark glasses, but the frown on his lips was ever present. “I bloody know that. It’s just...” He stopped, suddenly looking sheepish. “Pears are your favorite, yeah?” 

Aziraphale felt his face flush, and not because of the alcohol. “Ah, well. Yes, I do enjoy a good pear if I do say so, but I’m not really sure why you would...” He felt his words taper off the longer Crowley held his gaze, suddenly growing nervous. But what was there to be nervous about? His mind was behaving terribly slow, and Aziraphale considered sobering up right then and there. 

The sound of the frying pan clanging against the kitchen counter drew Aziraphale from his thoughts, and only then did he notice Crowley had moved into his space, eyes looking down at him. He could see only a peek of yellow over the black tint of the man’s glasses, and it sent a slight shiver down his spine. 

Demon. Right. 

“Angel,” Crowley said then, voice low and almost whispered as one of his hands brushed Aziraphale’s, fingers wrapping gently when he didn’t object. It was much warmer than Aziraphale had remembered. “I can’t...” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the words, suddenly unwilling to hear whatever came next. He was in over his head, whatever was happening. He needed to sober up. He needed to-- 

When Crowley touched his forehead to his, Aziraphale’s eyes shout open, breath catching. The other’s skin was still warm against his, warmer than a person’s should be now that he thought about it, and it was so heart wrenchingly intimate that Aziraphale had no idea what to do. He knew he’d been away from Earth for a very long time, but surely two people who met only a few weeks ago on a cooking show shouldn’t be holding hands and touching foreheads in an empty kitchen, right? 

“Crowley, I...” Aziraphale tried, mouth feeling suddenly dry and useless. He licked his lips, but it didn’t help, and his brow furrowed in response. Why wasn’t he sober yet? 

Crowley let out a sigh, and Aziraphale could feel his weight shift, the pressure on his forehead only a bit heavier than before. “I need you to tell me what to do,” he admitted quietly, voice sounding uncharacteristically lost. It shocked Aziraphale into further silence. “I need you, Aziraphale.” 

The sound of his name on Crowley’s lips was enough to send Aziraphale into a shock. It was said with such fondness, such heartache and sorrow, that he could feel his own heart breaking and he didn’t even know why. 

But then the warmth on his forehead was disappearing and the hand in his was slipping away, and Aziraphale felt himself panic, body alighting with wrongness. _Fix this_ , his mind screamed amidst the haze of alcohol he still allowed within his body, and he blamed it for what he did next. 

Aziraphale had never been one to be particularly concerned with physical things. Human things. The mind had always been where his interests lay, always curious for someone’s thoughts or words in the most intimate moments. He’d never been inclined to touch or hold, disliking how tangible and fleeting such things were, so he’d never had the chance to learn the finer things about topics such as hand holding or kissing. So he really hoped he wasn’t complete rubbish at the latter. 

When Aziraphale deemed it had been an appropriate amount of time for one to hold their breath, he released Crowley, hands having been gripping either side of the man’s face. When he finally realized what he’d done, he felt he might discorporate right then and there. 

“Oh, heavens,” he said in a rush before taking a step back, and then another. “Oh dear, I’m so very sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I assure you I didn’t mean to--” 

Crowley cut him off with a hand, expression unreadable once more behind those dark tinted glasses. “Angel, I think you should leave.” 

Aziraphale fought against the disappointment and hurt that radiated through him at the words, wondering what in heaven’s name was wrong with him to be so disappointed by a demon’s dismissal? “Right, well then. I’ll just be...” He cut himself off as he backed toward the door he’d come through, before disappearing from the room altogether. He prided himself on not stopping even when he heard something decidedly heavy bang against something else. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Demons were known to be rather destructive. 

It wasn’t until he was blocks from Crowley’s apartment, wondering where he even was and how he got there, that Aziraphale realized he was still drunk. With a shake, he quickly miracled the fog away, and only gave a brief glance before sending himself straight into his bed. He wasn’t one for sleeping, but right now a good curling up under a few blankets might do him some good, he supposed. 

Crowley was being ignored. 

It wasn’t subtle, like when humans would shuffle past him on the sidewalk, eyes diverted politely in some weird show of ingrained, societal manners. Nor was it overt, like when the other demons would turn their backs to him, or speak as if he wasn’t there during the occasional meet up. No, Crowley could deal with being ignored by humans and demons because they were lesser than him, unimportant in the eons of his long and never ending life. But being ignored by Aziraphale, in a way neither completely subtle or overt, full of stolen glances and whiffs of barely caught confusion, was something Crowley was completely and utterly unable to tolerate. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said as he made his way across the set, filming already done for the day. The newest addition to their competition seemed to be some human by the name of Adam Young, an all around terrible cook in Crowley’s opinion. He was as bland as a human could be, all dark brown eyes and messy hair. Clothes that seemed a bit too big, and a temper that was more reminiscent of a child than a young man. Yet there was something about his cooking the judges seemed to like, even if the edges of his pies were always burnt, or he'd forget to add salt or butter to a dish. But Crowley found himself unable to care too much, as the boy wouldn't be around for much longer. They never were. 

Aziraphale’s head snapped up at the mention of his name, a gentle smile prepared before he noticed Crowley heading toward him. The amiable expression vanished, replaced by something akin to panic. 

Crowley wasted no time in coming around Aziraphale’s station, leaning against the still ingredient-covered counter and into the angel’s space. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale stuttered out, hands wiping nervously on his apron as his eyes looked anywhere but at him. “You, um, did quite well today with your--” 

Crowley lifted a hand, yellow eyes peering dangerously over his glasses. Aziraphale only swallowed, words halted. “We need to talk, angel. Now.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes went a little wide before turning back to his station. “I--” 

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice interrupted from behind them, and Crowley turned on it with a scowl. 

A woman stood before them, tall and slim with owlish round glasses that seemed to take up the majority of her face. She was dressed casually, but in a style that befit someone from a storybook rather than a production assistant on the set of a popular cooking show. Or at least, Crowley assumed that’s what she was given the large headphones resting around her neck, a large mic box clipped to her skirt. 

“Hi,” she continued, ignoring Crowley has he continued to glare at her, hoping it would make her go away. “Aziraphale and Crowley, correct? I believe I’m meant to help you with your problem.” 

Aziraphale blanched, but, as always, tried for gentle politeness instead. “I am truly sorry, but I am afraid I, and, if my friend’s face is anything to go by, we don’t quite follow. What is it exactly you’re supposed to be helping us with?” 

The woman looked between the two of them, before raising a finger to point at each of them respectively. “You are a demon, yes? And you are an angel, except you’re missing something. I’m here to help you find it.” She smiled afterwards, seeming amused. “Any other questions?” 

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets, making a noncommittal noise in hopes of hiding his shock. Aziraphale, of course, wore it plainly on his face. 

“Great,” the woman said, beckoning them to follow as she moved across the set. “My car is parked in the back lot. Do you mind if I drive?" 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, as if expecting him to do something. 

"And just where are we driving to, if you don't mind me asking?" Crowley begrudgingly asked, annoyed by the angel's audacity to look for him for help when he was he one ignoring him, after all. 

Anathema paused in the removal of her mic box, pulling the headphones from her neck. "My home, of course. I find that most people don't care much for public acts of witchcraft." 

As if that explained everything, the woman began walking away and expected them to follow. 

"A witch. How lovely," Crowley commented, waving a hand at the woman. 

Aziraphale only hummed. "I don't believe I've ever met one in person. How fascinating." 

When the two had finally caught up to her, the woman continued. "By the way, my name is Anathema. Anathema Device.” 

Anathema’s home seemed something out of a children’s fairy tale, cottage and garden and all, and Crowley hated it that much more. 

After a long drive full of inane conversation to some small, sad town called Tadfield, Anathema had sat them both down in her kitchen before offering them tea. Aziraphale accepted, of course. Crowley declined, opting to stand by the sink and glare instead. 

“Care to explain why you’ve dragged us out to this dreary town, or am I to wait until after teatime?” he asked when he found his patience wearing thing, not even trying to hide the bite behind his words. 

Aziraphale gave him a look over his tea, still steaming. “Now, dear, is that anyway to speak to her after she's gone to all this trouble to invite us into her home?” He turned to Anathema, smiling warm and bright. “And what a lovely home it is. I must say, how do you get your flowers to grow some vibrantly?” 

“Divination,” she shrugged, pulling out a box from her pantry. She set it upon the table with a slight thud, betraying its hefty weight. “It helps to know when the weather will actually do as the weatherman says.” She lifted the lid, and began rifling through what looked like recipe cards. 

Aziraphale seemed to take this all in before asking, “And what, may I ask, are those?” 

Anathema made a noise of success as she pulled out a card, reading it over. “Prophecies. In recipe form because Agnes never could make anything easy.” She slid the card his way, waiting for him to pick it up. 

“Devils’ Food Cake, Angel Wings,” Aziraphale read aloud, brows drawing. “I do believe these are desserts, yes?” 

Anathema nodded, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “To most, yes.” She leaned over, snatching the card back. “To those who have studied Agnes’s prophecies, however, they are much more.” She tucked the card back into the box, before seating herself. “Now, for whatever reason, I am meant to help you. So, what is it that you have lost?” 

Aziraphale looked around a moment, before realizing Anathema was talking to him. “Me? Why, I don’t believe I have lost anything recently? Unless, of course, you count one flaming sword, which, if anyone asks, I simply lent out and will definitely be--” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, she means your memory,” Crowley interrupted, feeling his frustration began to bubble. “You’ve lost your bloody memory, and you’re too daft to even realize it.” 

Aziraphale stilled, and Anathema turned, looking between the two of them. “You don’t know what you’ve lost?” It wasn't a question, and her expression looked sad all of sudden, pitying.

Aziraphale had the audacity to look guilty, hands curling around his cooling tea. “No? I...I honestly wasn’t aware I was missing anything until you mentioned it at the set,” he confessed, expression a bit lost. 

Crowley had to turn away, knowing he was going to say something incredibly sentimental if he stuck around. “I have a call,” he lied before anyone could ask, and left. 

Azirpahale made sure to tell Anathema everything he knew. He didn’t think it was much, and a part of him had hoped Crowley would return to explain his part. It seemed the least he could do was hear the demon out, especially considering everything that had happened between them. 

Anathema had only hummed while he spoke, pointedly rummaging around her kitchen for this and that as she procured a few items and ingredients even Aziraphale couldn’t name. She pressed a few into his hand, tracing the lines of his palms, before dismissing whatever she’d discovered. She laid her hands against her temples, whispering something as she closed her eyes. Aziraphale had felt compelled to close his own, but after nothing but what felt like a slight rustle against his angelic form, she dropped her hands from him with a heavy sigh. 

“I’m afraid I am even more powerless than I realized,” Anathema admitted sadly, hands falling into her lap as her eyes drifted downward. 

Aziraphale reached out, taking her slightly chilled hands gently in his. “Oh, no, dear. I truly appreciate your help, but you must remember that I am a heavenly being and therefore whatever has affected me must be truly powerful indeed. I can feel the power in you, my dear Anathema, and it is truly extraordinary.” 

A suppressed smile slipped across Anathema’s face, and she squeezed Aziraphale’s hands before letting them go. “Thank you. I only wish I could help you more.” A moment passed between them in silence, before she began to bite her lip, contemplative. “Wait here.” 

She jumped from her seat, disappearing to leave Aziraphale alone. She returned before he could give too much though as to where Crowley had disappeared to. 

“Here,” Anathema began, coming over to Aziraphale and motioning for him to lean forward. She slipped something around his neck, the weight cold against his skin. When he sat back and looked down, he noticed he was wearing a long silver chain with a pendant hanging heavy at the bottom. It was stone encased in gleaming silver, bright as the sea and shining with infinitesimally small carvings. It was actually quite beautiful, and felt old even in his own hands. 

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale said aloud, cradling it in one hand. 

“It was Agnes’s,” Anathema explained, smiling sadly at the stone. “It’s been passed down to every witch in my family. I’ve been told it’s good for finding lost things.” 

Aziraphale smiled, closing his fist over the pendant to tuck it gently into his vest. “I’ll be sure to keep it safe. Thank you.” 

Anathema sighed. “I only wish there was more I could do.” She shook away whatever was weighing her down with a glance out the window over the sink, garden green and beckoning in the late afternoon sun. “What do you say we go find your dreary demon friend? I do believe he is still moping in my garden.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh, feeling for a moment how very Crowley that was, even if he couldn’t remember why. 

Outside, a summer rain had begun with the sun still shining between scattered clouds. The rain was cool against Aziraphale’s hand when he reached out from underneath Anathema’s porch, a bit awed. He'd always been a bit soft for the more natural gifts of creation. 

Crowley stood in the midst of it all, bracketed on any side by curling, green vegetation and unbothered by the cool droplets that began to soak into his suit. His head was tilted up, sunglasses ever pressed against his face, and Aziraphale thought for a moment that he looked incredibly sad. 

“Crowley,” he called out, feeling unable to stop himself. Standing there, on a witch’s porch with a pendant pressed against his chest and an unfamiliar demon before him, Aziraphale somehow felt completely lost yet so incredibly close to finding something his very angelic essence seemed to ache for. 

Aziraphale only had a moment to take Crowley in, turning at the call of his name, before he was obscured by a familiar face, smiling in a way that always seemed to bother Aziraphale. 

“Az, buddy,” Gabriel greeted, placing both hands on either side of him before squeezing uncomfortably tight. He didn't even glance back at Crowley, but Aziraphale was very much aware that he knew the demon was there. “Have a minute?” 

Before Aziraphale could even think of replying, Anathema’s cottage disappeared from beneath him. 

He wasn’t sure where he was exactly, but he did know it was very much Not Heaven, which he considered a good sign. Gabriel always did think so little of Earth, hating it in his own, twisted way, and would need no reason more than a fleeting fancy to drag him back to Heaven and interrogate him or whatever it was the archangel was planning to do. 

The room itself was neatly furnished, similar to the room he himself had been staying in, and Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate to make himself comfortable at the table before him. There is tea set out, along with a few biscuits and scones, and he may be an angel by nature but his sweet tooth was entirely human made. 

Gabriel was already seated across from him, elbows atop the pale peach linen and hands clasped together, observing. 

“So” he began, watching Aziraphale drop another cube of sugar into his tea. “How’s the cooking going?” 

Aziraphale paused a moment, taken aback by the question. “Excuse me?” 

Gabriel waved a hand. “You know. The cooking. The show. The reason we sent you down here.” His ending words were pointed, and Aziraphale took the moment to stare only at his tea, now a deep, rich brown. 

“Oh, just fine. Just fine.” 

Gabriel didn’t comment further, but Aziraphale could feel the archangels eyes on him. Watching. Waiting. 

After what felt like a millennia, Gabriel stood before coming around the table. Aziraphale felt a strong hand grab him by the chin, lifting his gaze upward. 

“How much do you remember?” 

Aziraphale could only stare, wide eyed, at Gabriel, thoughts turning uselessly. “I do beg your pardon, but I’m not--” 

Gabriel’s gripped tightened, and Aziraphale wondered if his corporeal form could break under that strength. He was rather fond of his body, after all. “You do understand that I could tear you from this body and send you straight to heaven with a ring of holy fire waiting for you, and Michael wouldn’t even bat a single eyelash.” 

Aziraphale said nothing, feeling just a tad uncomfortable at the mention of holy fire. 

Gabriel held his hard gaze for only a moment longer before rolling his eyes, sighing. “No one ever wants to do it the easy way.” He raised his free hand over Aziraphale’s eyes then, and Aziraphale screamed. 

Images flitted through his mind in those moments, glowing against a backdrop of blinding white. He saw Anathema, granting him her ancestor's necklace. Crowley on the set of Heaven’s Kitchen, dark and intimidating yet unable to ignore. There were glimpses of Heaven, of trainings and meetings and the occasional free time where he watched a few popular human shows. Read a good book or two.

But then the images seemed to blur, flashing by quick and heavy: A dinner with white linen and dark, red wine. Evening walks along the river, bread in hand to feed the small ducklings swarming at the muddy bank. A stark, bleak kitchen, and a familiar armchair placed before a fireplace, book in hand. 

And then it was as if he was reliving all of human history, achingly intimate: World War II, the French Revolution, the Kingdom of Wessex, the Roman Empire, the drowning of the world. It was as if he had been there, had been on Earth all along, but that was not the most startling thing. 

No, the most incredible thing was that in every moment Crowley had been right there with him, always by his side. Heaven, how could he have ever forgotten? 

_Oh, Crowley, I am so sorry_ , was all Aziraphale thought as Gabriel removed his hand, bringing him back to the present. 

Gabriel was frowning now, brows drawn and expression hinting at disgust. “You remembered nothing yet you still--” 

“Gabriel, please,” Aziraphale interrupted, feeling like his angelic form had been used in a game of cricket. “What has happened? Why did my memories disappear?” 

Gabriel drew in a breath, moving back around the table. He snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale felt something heavy drape over the space around them. 

“Because you are weak, Aziraphale,” he began, hands now clasped behind his back. He was slowly coming to smile again, and Aziraphale was no longer interested in the tea before him. “And you always have been. But, fortunately for us, you are a good soldier, and Michael sees the potential in you. So we do what we must for the good of Heaven. Now, be a good boy and stay here while I clean up your mess.” 

Gabriel vanished before Aziraphale could leave his seat. When he tried to follow, he found himself unable to. 

“Warding? How archaic,” he scoffed aloud before sitting back down in his chair. He reached for his tea, now cold and uninviting. Pushing the cup aside, he leaned forward onto the table, and put his head in his hands. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, and wondered if the faint warmth of Crowley’s mouth would be enough to last him the next few millennia's of his life. 

It only took a moment for him to realize it would never be enough. 

Crowley wasn’t much of a fighter. Too much work and never enough pay off. He liked to leave those to the younger demon’s, eager for proving themselves within the inner circles of Hell. Even on Earth, he preferred if the humans just fought one another. It was more amusing for him, and tended to attract the attention of one very uptight angel. 

But when Gabriel had showed his smug face in that witch’s garden, Crowley had wanted nothing more than to burn the world himself. 

“Are you sure they’re alright?” Anathema asked as she stepped over yet another downed angel. Crowley couldn’t kill them, not really, but he wasn’t holding back either. Just enough to get them out of his way. 

“They’re fine. Are you sure he’s here?” Crowley looked up at the apartment building before them. It was dull and boring, nothing but an eyesore on a yet another dreary street of London. He’d honestly expected something a bit fancier from Heaven of all things. 

Anathema lifted her divining rods, watching them sway lightly. “If I trust Agnes, which I do, then I do believe he is here.” 

Crowley only shrugged before heading inside. 

“In there,” Anathema said as Crowley moved aside to trip an oncoming angel down the stairs. The frilly bastards always were too eager for their own good. Not that Hell was much better, in his opinion 

At the end of the hall was a door, just as identical as the rest. But Crowley could smell the angelic presence rippling from it, and knew they were in the right place. 

“Angel warding,” he scoffed, a bit appalled at the antiquity. He hadn’t seen something like that used since at least a century ago, by his own, bumbling people of all things. 

Crowley stared the door down a moment, before raising a foot and kicking the damn thing down. He wasn’t entirely sure if it had been locked, but it felt good to just kick something that wasn’t another servant of Heaven. Not that it hadn't been terribly fun to do so. 

The room reeked of angelic presence, and Crowley scrunched up his nose at the unfamiliar smells. The place was all show and no substance, and made him feel like the place should belong to some aging woman who reads fortunes, not housing an angelic captive. That line of thought faltered, however, as Crowley noticed Aziraphale in the room. The angel was moving forward, eyes searching the wooden door currently splintered across the floor. When he looked up, there was a clarity in his eyes that Crowley had sorely missed. He felt his entire being light up with the realization. 

“Crowley? Good heavens, what did you do to the door?” 

_Ah, there you are_. 

As if Aziraphale had heard his thoughts, a gentle smile broke over the angel's face, expression softening. 

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, and before he could do anything else, Aziraphale was rushing him into a very physical, very strong hug. “What are you doing?” 

Aziraphale only held him tighter, face hidden in the shoulder of his suit. “I’m hugging you. It’s what humans do when they are very happy to see one another, I’m told.” 

Crowley stared down at him, arms still raised in shock, before laughing. “Angel, you are, as always, so very dramatic.” 

Anathema let out a sharp laugh from behind them, deft hands moving along the walls, as if sensing the wards. “Says the man who burned my garden in a fit of rage.” 

Aziraphale giggled quietly at that, and looked up, drawing Crowley’s attention before he could turn his embarrassed wrath on Anathema. “How did you find me?” 

Crowley tilted his head toward Anathema. She was still following the walls, divining rods now in hand. 

“I told you that necklace was good at finding lost things,” she mused, pulling at the seam of the wallpaper. “Wasn’t exactly sure which way it would work, though.” 

Aziraphale could feel the stone pressed against his chest, so close to his human heart, and the thought made him want to laugh until his ribs ached. "And Gabriel? I'm sure he'll be looking for you, if he wasn't already."

Crowley made a noise, as if Gabriel wasn't even a threat on his radar. "Nothing a little rumor can't take care of. Beelzebub is always looking for a reason to wipe the smile of that angelic bastard's face. Helps if they think the angel has got it out for them in the first place." 

Aziraphale frowned. "Really, Crowley. Do you want to start a war this early between Heaven and Hell?"

Crowley shrugged, arms wrapping solidly around Aziraphale. "If it means giving us a head start, then I don't mind. What do you say, Angel? Run away with me?"

Aziraphale felt, in that moment, as if every celestial body had aligned perfectly in that moment. If he was human, he was sure he would feel his heart skip a beat. "I've heard Andromeda is lovely this time of year," he teased, leaning back so he could look clearly at Crowley, take him all in. "I have to say, my dear, you cannot know how positively and truly good it is to see you again. Both of you. And in one piece at that.” 

Crowley only stared down at him over black glasses, eyes flashing as a smug grin creeped across his face. “Likewise, Angel.” 

Their second kiss was nothing like the first. There was no hesitation on Aziraphale's part, nor closed off restraint etched across Crowley's skin. It was pure, humanly physical affection that neither of them had ever seen reason to act upon until this very moment. Yet for some reason it made sense, above all else, that their lives would collide in this manner. For how very fitting it was indeed for one angel and one demon to find contentment in an act so very human it defied reason. Intelligent design be damned. 

Anathema’s shout of discovery pulled them both from the moment, however, and it was only thanks to Aziraphale’s gentle persuasion that they stopped her from shoving the stool at her side into the wall. 

The season finale of Heaven's Kitchen was something few people could remember. But those who did would always spoke of it with a kind of awe only those who had lived through war would understand. The show had ended in fire, metaphorically and literally, as the reigning champion, one Anthony J Crowley himself, had accidentally launched a few spark onto a nearby dish towel, somehow lending the whole set to burning down. This came only moments after another contestant had up and quit mid-challenge, complaining of improper working conditions. 

Amidst the blaze of a flaming studio, firetrucks lighting up the streets outside, one young man by the name of Adam Young was proclaimed winner of Heaven's Kitchen, and promised a line of his own frozen meals. Adam had looked down at the award given to him, some decorative knife emblazoned with the shows logo, and simply nodded before walking away from the camera.

After months of waiting, people began to realize there would be no Adam Young frozen foods.

What most people didn't know, however, was that in a small, dreary town called Tadfield, a new bookstore had been open. The owner was known as a kind and gentle man, but unable to part with a single book even though it was considered very bad business. Another man, colder and more terrifying than the other, could be seen wandering in and out of its doors regularly. Some wondered if the two were perhaps living together, and if there weren't, why hadn't they done so already? 

Fortunately, the owner always seemed to be around to remind me that that was none of their business, was it?

Especially if somebody would catch the two of them sharing an achingly gentle kiss in the Historical Fiction section.


End file.
